Once in a Lifetime
by Leng-Xue
Summary: "The late night dinners, cold, yet welcoming in the aftermath of a cracked case. The pair of gloved hands sliding quietly up the banister so as not to disrupt Mrs. Hudson's gentle snores. Shared smirks of triumph. Rejoicement at safety, comforting words or flicks of fingers, small gestures that meant everything and nothing. These were things that no one ever saw or thought about."
1. Once in a Lifetime

A/N: Two oneshots I wrote for tumblr showcasing the brotherly bond between Holmes and Watson. Enjoy!

 **Once in a Lifetime**

There was always something about 221b that redefined the meaning of uniqueness. It was unusual, it did not fit into the work that was detection. The whole of England-nay-the _world_ could have been repeatedly shocked by one Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his legendary adventures, but to say that there wasn't that single, elusive quality of normalcy in that simple apartment would be a lie. For all intents and purposes, this odd feeling that pervaded every nook and cranny of the place was never out of reach of either of the two famous tenants on Baker Street.

The late night dinners, cold, yet welcoming in the aftermath of a cracked case. The pair of gloved hands sliding quietly up the banister so as not to disrupt Mrs. Hudson's gentle snores. Shared smirks of triumph. Rejoicement at safety, comforting words or flicks of fingers, small gestures that meant everything and nothing. These were things that no one ever saw or thought about.

Social norms were volatile, present one second and the next, seemingly gone from the realm of existence. The essence of the vapors that bloomed from the end of Holmes' pipe or the fickle chemical nature of his vast experiments accounted for such. It quantified just how little spoken words meant in comparison to the connection they shared.

Though regular, this resounding peculiarity of 'normal' was not monotony. It was not the endless weeks of boredom, not the Morocco case nor the persian slipper. Loathe as Holmes was to admit it, it was not even a product of Watson's romanticism.

It was home.

The youthful friendship and understanding born of days long past kindled a partnership unprecedented by any other. Time flows and seasons fade, but that singular pact of loyalty between two men of opposing dispositions extended beyond any constraints of the mortal world. That was their definition of glory, their key to success and to each other. It was how they swept the audience of foreign shores off their feet and made the sky fall to its knees.

It was a pact of brotherhood that lasted a lifetime.


	2. An Estimation of Grace

**An Estimation of Grace**

Missing or missed? What was absent? What parts of their relationship were still present? It was hard to tell without his Boswell, especially after the little disagreement they had.

Only it hadn't been "little," at least to his dear friend.

Holmes struck a match against the side of the mantelpiece, lighting his clay pipe and gazing at the V.R. artfully embedded into his wallpaper. Watson had suggested putting a painting or some other decoration over it so any future clients they might have wouldn't be too…deterred upon realizing Holmes practiced his marksmanship in the house. Of course, the detective had denied the request, stating that hiding the queen's name would only dishonor it and the respect he held for the royal family.

And things had only escalated from there, starting with the older man calling him stubborn. One or two unjust insults later and the doctor was gone.

Holmes sighed softly through his bird's beak of a nose, wafts of whitish smoke floating to the ceiling like the old ghosts of his black moods. Surely he couldn't be blamed? Watson had known he hadn't had a case for upwards of two weeks.

The man let his eyes drift shut. His feet moved of their own volition, pacing up and down the new Persian rug Mrs. Hudson had gifted them last Christmas. The old one had been badly singed with the contents of one of his failed experiments.

Watson had been gone then too, out of commission with a partial concussion during their last case.

It was then that the Great Detective stopped dead in his tracks, forcing all the tobacco smoke out of his lungs for a long second. It all clicked together. He was _worried_. Worried because Watson had been out for so long—nearly the entire day by his estimation. They were men who disappeared for weeks on end, sometimes getting shot at by dangerous criminals or going on wild flights of pursuit that lasted days. And he was _concerned_ that Watson wasn't back by now?

Oh how far the mighty have fallen. It was that niggling feeling of guilt that Sherlock Holmes would never attest to possessing that made him this way. If only he hadn't hurt Watson, the most loyal man he had ever known, then this wouldn't have happened.

The ticking of the grandfather clock struck six o'clock, chiming Big Ben's tune of the hour. Holmes shook himself out of his melancholy as the sound of fast striking footsteps came up the stairs. The red, slightly out-of-breath figure of the good doctor appeared at the doorway, his hand hanging limply on the knob.

"I apologize," they murmured in unison. They looked up at each other at the same time in amazement, slight confusion, and eventually, humor.

"It was most wrong of me to push the issue, Holmes."

"And I should have never said those things to you, Watson." Holmes tapped the ash out of his pipe, placing the earthen object on his desktop.

The sun hovered low on the horizon, sending a faint glimmer of golden light through the cracked windowpane. Shattered spider-web etchings fell upon them, causing his friend to grin.

"You're standing in the same place where Moriarty's men tried to assassinate you."

"Indeed."

For the first time in a long while, Holmes didn't fight off the joy that spread across his lips.


End file.
